


Patterns in Mithril

by mainecoon76



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ancient History, Azaghal And His Age, Books, Dwalfling Shenanigans, Family, Gen, Library Appreciation, M/M, Why Betting Against Dís Is A Questionable Idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: Deep in the library of Erebor, Dís and Thorin discover an ancient treasure. Its true worth they understand over a century later...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuiske](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/gifts).



> Dear recipient, have some Durin family feels - and "hyvää joulua"!
> 
> *bites fingernails and hopes she didn't say "your feet smell of fish"*
> 
> Thanks and hugs to [Saetha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha), who calmed my nerves and betaed this fic.

Somewhere in the depths of the Mountain, Durin's folk keep a treasure of a different sort.

It is said that dwarves crave precious metals and gems that glitter in the firelight, preferably shaped by their own skilled hands. There is truth in that, yet also error. Every dwarf knows to honour the gifts of the stone, but above all they treasure the achievements of their people - their crafts, their lore, their wisdom - and this, unlike their riches, is a wealth they rarely show to one who is not a dwarf. That is, most likely, the reason why not much of it is known to the world outside.

Somewhere in the depths of the Mountain, Durin's folk keep their books.

The Library of Erebor surpasses in splendor all the treasure chambers. A man might not think so, nor an elf of the woods, for those would look on the rivers of gold and be blinded by awe; but none of them have ever seen the wonders that reside deep under the rock.

Unfortunately, dwarflings are not allowed to enter.

 

"Thorin?"

Thorin dunked a rag into the oil and continued to polish his practice sword. If he pretended to be busy, then maybe she would leave him alone. Not likely, but theoretically possible. There was a first time for everything.

"Thooooorin! I know you are here!"

Quick steps in the corridor, then the door to his private quarters slid open. His little sister placed herself ostentatiously in the doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed. She was clearly mimicking a favourite poise of their mother's, but the effect was diminished by her chubby cheeks and the fact that, had Thorin been standing, she would barely have reached his shoulder. Dis had only recently seen her fortieth winter, and this was precisely the problem at hand.

"I can't," he growled. "Need to finish this before training."

"You _promised_." Her voice had taken an accusatory tone. "You lost the bet. Frerin can vouch for it."

He managed not to groan openly and was quite proud of it. He would rather have forgotten about the affair altogether, and was still convinced that she had cheated - how did she know that Alfur the Guard could spit through his own smoke rings? The payment of his debt was a matter of honour, but surely it could wait another day or two. Long enough to engage his sister's attention elsewhere and make it obsolete.

"Not now, namadid," he informed her in his most patronizing big brother tone. "Dwalin will be back in another hour. I need to get ready for sparring."

Dís shifted her weight from one foot to another. Her eyes narrowed, and Thorin had the ominous feeling that something important had occurred to her.

"If you _don't_ show me," she told him with a sly grin, "I will tell Dwalin that you scratched his name into your bedpost. Framed by a _diamond_."

This time Thorin could not suppress a groan.

 

It was an act of great courage, bravery and cunning to smuggle an underage dwarf into the library. Thorin had only recently been admitted himself, and though a proud dwarrow of Durin's folk feared nothing, he would admit that it was unwise to annoy Master Gilda. The chief librarian was a huge dwarrowdam with arms like tree-trunks and a temper like a liquid vein of lava. Rumor claimed that she had killed as many orcs as she held books in her sanctuary.

She also knew exquisite curses and uttered quite a few of them as she strode past Thorin and Dís, who were crouching behind a statue of Nain II. and anxiously holding their breaths. From his position around the corner Frerin was wailing loudly. Thorin had to admit that the display was impressive enough to justify the bag of candied fruit his brother had demanded in return.

As soon as the librarian was out of sight, Thorin caught his sister's arm and pulled her past the marble entrance. Getting into the library was the main obstacle. The structure was so huge that it had to be difficult for Gilda and her aids to keep track of everything that happened in the tunnels.

Large enough to get lost in, some said, but the idea was absurd. Durin's folk did not get lost inside a Mountain.

 

Two hours later, Thorin was not entirely sure if they had already passed this hall or not.

The library was a lot larger than he had expected. He had never ventured far into the tunnels that led deep into the rock, down steep staircases and through vast halls with bridges and galleries. The ceiling was decorated with inlays of gold and silver that glittered in the soft light of the lamps, which were a wonder in themselves, for they were encased in crystal. No open flames were allowed in this place, and Thorin could easily see why: The walls were lined with endless shelves. Thorin saw rows and rows of books, stacks of scrolls and parchments, maps, and little boards of clay with rough marks scratched on them. Some tomes with a particularly magnificent cover were put on display; and breathtaking they were, with elaborate patterns burned into ancient leather or sparkling gems embedded in dark velvet. Here and there they came across reading tables, placed in niches or along the galleries, but they were lucky enough to avoid the attention of the few dwarrows they encountered.

In fact, Thorin thought with a vague feeling of unease, they had not encountered anyone for a while. Dís was still trailing beside him, awed into uncharacteristic silence and oblivious to the fact that they were… well. Not lost. He just didn't know the _direct_ way out. But surely, they had seen this magnificent chandelier on their way… or a similar one at least… if they turned around and took the stairway that looked a bit like…

"Thorin!"

Dis grabbed his arm and pointed, and Thorin's thoughts came to a sudden halt. In a niche beneath a staircase, framed by two crystalline lamps, stood the most magnificent book he had ever seen. 

It was almost as large as his forearm from the elbow to the fingertips, and as thick as several fingers. The front appeared to be covered by a thin veneer of mithril, decorated with diamonds and rubies that glittered in the lamplight. Worked into the metal by skillful hands was a picture - a landscape, Thorin realized as he stepped closer, though it was drawn in a strange style he did not recognize. A battle, perhaps? There was a mountain and many figures and…

"Look, Thorin," Dis whispered as she let her fingers run along the ancient pattern. "It is a dragon." 

"Don't touch it," he warned, but curiosity had awoken in him - was he not an adult, after all? He would be careful - and very gently he lifted the cover and opened the book.

The pages rustled, but did not dissolve into dust as he had feared. Written on them were runes - Cirth, he recognized, and Khuzdul had changed very little through the ages, so he could decipher them. But the language was archaic and difficult to make sense of.

"Azaghâl," he murmured. "I know the name. When we learned about the history of the First Age… He was the King of Gabilgathol, and…" he leafed through the tome, trying to find the interesting parts. "Yes, namadid, I think that is a dragon on the cover."

"Did he kill a dragon?" Dís asked, wide-eyed, always eager for an exciting tale.

"No. The dragon killed him. But he fought it and he was very brave. Here…"

He pointed at an illustration, black and red ink on yellowish parchment. A group of dwarves with axes and swords stood before a huge dragon. It faced their leader with a malicious sneer.

"So he was a hero," Dís whispered reverently. 

"He wasn't just a hero because he fought a dragon," said a cold voice behind them. They whirled around to face Master Gilda, who looked down on them not unlike the dragon in the picture was looking at Azaghâl.

"For those who slept through their history lessons," she continued bitingly, "Azaghâl was part of the Great Union of dwarves and elves and men that fought Melkor during the First Age. They failed because they were betrayed, but they were still heroes. And _this_ ," she pointed at the tome, "is one of our most valuable possessions, crafted in Khazad-Dûm and roughly four thousand years old. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

The unfairness of it all, Thorin reflected later and not without bitterness, was that no one held _Dís_ responsible for their trespassing. It also amounted to bitter betrayal that Dwalin laughed his ass off instead of sharing his indignation. In any case he did not enter the library again for a very long time. 

 

They never learned what had become of Master Gilda. She was not among the refugees of Erebor, and somehow Thorin had always assumed that she had perished in her library, keeping silent watch over it while the centuries passed. But when the Mountain was reclaimed and the library was recovered, untouched, for the dragon had not been able to descent so far into the tunnels, no one ever found a trace of her.

Several months after the great battle, while Thorin was massaging his damaged arm with Oin's salve after a long day's work, Dís walked into his chamber and dropped a book onto the table.

"You should read this," she informed him. 

Dwalin looked over her shoulder and whistled through his teeth. "Where'd you get this beauty?" he asked, and when Thorin rose to join them and laboriously made his way to the table, he recognized the magnificent tome they had discovered in the library so many years ago.

His sister was not the mischievous dwarfling she had been then. Silver strands were woven into her braids, and the lines on her face spoke of hardship and toil. But her eyes, as she looked at him now, were as bright as they had been in the crystalline lamplight.

"Searched for it," she replied, "Because I, unlike others, can find my way back to a place I've been before. It's a story of a hero, or so we heard. Perhaps they will tell such stories about you when you pass into legend."

Thorin felt the familiar tightening of his gut, the feeling of shame that rose in his stomach and made his face burn. "I am not a hero," he snapped.

Dís and Dwalin exchanged a long-suffering glance. "I heard stories about him in the Ered Luin," his sister said. "And I leafed through this, a bit. Read it."

With that she walked out. Dwalin shrugged to indicate that he had nothing to do with this, but he looked entirely too pleased for Thorin's comfort.

 

They read it together, Dwalin and he, for his friend asked him to read aloud, and when he grew tired of it Dwalin took the book from his hands and continued in his calm, steady voice. Many evenings they settled thus, wrapped in blankets and warmed by the fire while they let their spirits travel thousands of years into the past. The story had already been a legend when some anonymous writer from Khazad-Dûm had recorded it for generations to come. The language they had used was archaic and beautiful. Once Thorin had gotten used to the foreign turns of phrase, the story captured him entirely. From neat, careful handwriting, illustrated by skillful drawings, emerged a tale of heroism and betrayal, of doubt and failure and friendship and, above all, of hope. 

It told of a folk who built a great realm, full of glory now forgotten by all but their kin. Great craftspeople they had been, and friends to the elves, which to the author from Khazad-Dûm seemed no cause of wonder. But darkness had stirred in the lands and in the hearts of the people, and the portents had spoken of doom.

It told of a King who did not fear the darkness, but in his pride believed himself untouchable. Not all his deeds were valiant. Long did he neglect to face the evil that lurked in the North, turned away from it because he deemed it no concern to his people. Only when the spawn of evil nearly claimed his life, he saw that he had been blind.

It told of a friendship with an Elf Lord the author called Firehelm, who had rescued the King and himself was not free of misjudgment. A union was forged, greater than any before, and the Great Foe had been challenged by a host of elves and dwarves and men. Demons there were, and other dark creatures of Angband, and a dragon. 

At the end, there was defeat.

Tears beyond measure were shed. Despair and greed twisted the minds of good people until all unions drowned in blood. Yet beneath all the death and bloodshed, so wrote the dwarf of Khazad-Dûm, remained hope: the hope that the free people of Middle Earth could achieve great things, if they stood together. They were close to that, or so the author believed. They were very close.

 

"They weren't close," said Dwalin when Thorin closed the book and traced the patterns in the mithril cover with his index finger. "The war of… damn, what was it called… all that shit with the ring was afterwards, wasn't it?"

"I think so, yes," Thorin returned thoughtfully. "But there was another alliance at the end of the Second Age. They were victorious."

And so were we, he thought, even if our alliance with men and elves was born of necessity and not agreement. Maybe we can do better now. Maybe we are closer now than they ever were. 

But there was more. The story told so much of what no history class had taught him: of pride, of doubt, of people who were fallible, yet still remained heroes. It was a thought-provoking tale, and it made some of the gloom that had settled on him since they had entered the Mountain lift from his mind. He would give something nice to his sister as a gift of gratitude. Surely she would appreciate a fine bead for her beard, as soon as his arm was strong enough again to swing a hammer.

And meanwhile, perhaps, a bag of candied fruit.

**Author's Note:**

> Since we know precious little about Azaghâl, I fleshed out his story a bit. Perhaps I'm wrong and he was flawless - but then, who is?


End file.
